Memory Lane

by Laurence Gough

  Kelly said, “You think you’re so darn smart.”

  It was going to sound terminally dumb, but Ross felt he had to say it anyway. “You didn’t have to shoot him.”

  “Yeah, I did so. He was coming at me. Besides, that’s partly why I invited him over. If he couldn’t help me with the money, at least I could shoot him. Make an object lesson of him, so you’d know I was serious.”

  “What about the grocer? You must think I’m a pretty slow learner, Kelly”

  “The grocer was an accident. One of those spontaneous-combustion type things. I could’ve cancelled Hoffman, but it would’ve seemed like such a waste, because of all the time me ’n’ Shannon spent setting him up.”

  Serious. Was that a synonym for stark raving mad? Ross didn’t think so. If he made it out of here, managed to extricate himself from this situation, he’d have to look it up. He jerked a thumb at the bathroom. “Who is that, in there?”

  “Shannon Lucy Brown.”

  “No, I mean, who is she?”

  “A person who has a very strong ambition to take early retirement from Zellers.” Kelly studied Ross closely as he said, “Also, she’s my fiancée. Plus, she’s gonna be my next victim, you don’t tell me what happened to the two hundred grand.” He smiled. “A triple threat, but you don’t care what happens to her, do you? Okay, fine. Then you can be my next victim.” He flipped open the revolver’s cylinder, worked the extractor and ejected the three spent and three live rounds into the palm of his hand. He dug into his pocket for fresh cartridges, reloaded, snapped shut the cylinder. Indicating Hoffman, he said, “He sure is dead, isn’t he?”

  “I’m no doctor.”

  “Don’t fucking quibble with me. Anybody can see that’s one dead parole officer. You’re in any doubt, go ahead and resuscitate him. Take a shot at it, Ross. Give him a great big kiss, let’s see what happens.”

  Blood had dribbled out of the entrance wound and down into the corner of Hoffman’s eye. Ross willed him to raise his hand and wipe the blood away. Hoffman wasn’t having any of it.

  Kelly went over to the bathroom door. “You okay, honey?” He flinched at the response, moved away from the door.

  Ross said, “Where are the Crowns, Nancy and her husband? What’s his name?”

  “Tyler. Divorced. He’s in Bermuda, taking a breather. She’s living with her sister, somewhere in the interior. The house has been vacant three months. It’s listed at one-point-eight million, but open to offers. Sharon Lewis has the listing. She’s with Re/max. Or is it Sutton? A very persuasive young lady. But not too observant. I left the main-floor bathroom window unlocked. All she cared about was that I’d remembered to flush.”

  “One-point-eight’s a little out of my range.”

  “How about two hundred and twenty thousand?”

  Ross said, “I don’t have the money. Is that what you think? You might as well shoot me now, and get it over with.”

  “Yeah, okay.” Kelly lifted the revolver, fully extended his arm. He squinted down the barrel, shut his left eye and then thought better of it and opened the eye wide and shut his right eye. Perplexed, he wiped his brow with the back of his hand and squeezed both eyes shut. But only for a moment.

  Shannon had stopped being sick. The two men stood there, listening to her cries of sorrow.

  Kelly said, “I think she really liked him. Jealous?”

  “Not yet. Give me a little time to let it sink in.”

  “Hand me that bag,” said Kelly. “I got some stuff in there I’m gonna have to put to a use it was never designed for.”

  Ross offered the plastic Zellers bag. Kelly took it. He told Ross to strip to his shorts and lie belly-down on the carpet with his hands clasped behind his back. He fished around in the bag, pulled out a fat roll of duct-tape and bound Ross’s hands and then his ankles, yanked off a foot of tape and sealed Ross’s mouth. He began to bury him in tight coils of tape, starting with his feet and working his way slowly up his body. From time to time he rolled Ross over, this way and that. He grunted as he worked, the force of his concentration gleaming in his eyes. Ross raised his head, glanced down the length of his silver body. The tape couldn’t have been any tighter. The coils were almost perfect, overlapping a half inch or so, hardly any wrinkles.

  Kelly caught him looking. He paused, straightened his back. “So I take pride in my work. So what. Is there something wrong with that?”

  Ross said, “Mrrph!”

  Kelly lost interest in him. He was busy, busy, busy. A demented spider, trussing up his prey.

  Chapter 28

  Willows gave it a little more gas as the road steepened. They topped the rise just in time to see the car in front of them, a dark blue Pontiac Sunfire, rear-end a silver mini-van. Sheet metal crumpled. Sparks flew. Bits of orange plastic and a shower of safety glass sprayed the road. Willows hit the brake pedal with both feet. The Ford slewed sideways. He corrected, saw that he was going to hit the fool in front of him. He fought the steering wheel as the car drifted across the solid yellow onto the wrong side of the road. He was pleased to see there was no oncoming traffic. He managed to get the car under control. Parker was rigid in her seat, her eyes wide.

  Half a block distant, a vehicle had ploughed into the blunt stern of a bus as the bus had started its turn off Point Grey Road on to MacDonald. Flares littered the roadway. The stricken vehicles were burning briskly despite the rain, thick coils of acrid black smoke spiralling into the sky. There had been several other minor accidents, as the traffic had backed up. Willows heard the growly foghorn whoop of a fire truck. He glanced in his rear-view mirror. A hook-and-ladder was coming up fast, and he was blocking the road. The Ford’s shocks bottomed out as he gunned it up over the curb and onto the sidewalk. He killed his siren. The fire truck blew past, and the Ford rocked in the slipstream.

  More cars were piling up behind them, jamming the road. Willows heard another screech of brakes, the impact of another collision. He backed the Ford onto the road and drove slowly forward. The sidewalks were already filling up; the Ford’s whirling fireball stained white faces red.

  Willows had hoped to extricate himself from the jam by driving south on MacDonald, but as he approached the corner he saw that the traffic was already backed up the better part of a block. A trapped ambulance was trying to work its way free. A uniformed cop waved his flashlight. Willows had already slowed the Ford to a crawl. He braked and rolled down his window.

  The cop was yelling at him over the blare of horns and sirens, but Willows couldn’t hear a word he said. Parker had bailed out and was running hard towards the fiery heart of the accident. Willows unbuckled his seatbelt. He pushed open his door, forcing the startled cop to scramble aside.

  There was a whoosh as a fireman levelled a chemical extinguisher on the flames. A cloud of white smoke billowed up around the base of the fire, but in a moment the blaze had reasserted itself. In the lurid orange glow of the flames Willows saw that the bus had been rear-ended by a nondescript brown Econoline van.

  Eddy Orwell sat hunched on the curb beyond the fire. There was blood on his face. A paramedic crouched beside him, a latex-gloved hand on Orwell’s arm. Willows reached them a stride behind Parker.

  The paramedic glanced up. “You know this guy?”

  Parker nodded. She knelt down beside Orwell. He’d suffered numerous cuts and scrapes, all of them apparently superficial. His nose was broken and he was bleeding steadily but unspectacularly. She said, “Eddy, are you okay?”

  Orwell grunted. Fat drops of blood spattered on the pavement.

  The paramedic said, “Hey, buddy, you okay?”

  “Eddy?” said Willows, joining them.

  This time, Orwell completely failed to respond. The paramedic spoke urgently into his radio. He caught Willows’ eye. “There’s cops back there trying to clear a lane through the traffic. A gurney should be here in a minute or two”

  Orwell said, “Jack?”

  “Right here, Eddy”

  O
rwell said, “Not me.” He wiped his nose with the back of his hand, and groaned softly.

  With unforced cheerfulness the paramedic said, “Yeah, it’s you. But don’t worry, you’re gonna be just fine.”

  “Not me,” said Orwell. He reached out, clutched Parker’s sleeve. “Bobby,” he said.

  Parker glanced at the paramedic, who gave her a look roughly equivalent to twirling his finger around his ear.

  Orwell said, “It wasn’t me. It was Bobby.”

  “You’re telling me Bobby was driving, is that it?”

  “Not me,” said Orwell patiently.

  The paramedic told Willows that the van’s driver had been removed from the vehicle and rushed to St. Paul’s. Bobby had been unconscious, his injuries undetermined. A few minutes later, Orwell was eased into an ambulance. By then the fire was under control. Traffic was being rerouted, the jam efficiently cleared. But it was another five minutes before Willows was able to extricate the Ford. He drove south on MacDonald, made a right and drove past Tatlow Park, made another right on Balaclava and then a left on Point Grey Road. They were only a few blocks from the Crown residence, and closing fast.

  A block from the house, he killed the siren and fireball. Parker spotted the orange Datsun on a side street. Willows radioed the dispatcher and requested backup. He drove up on the sidewalk in front of the house. A white Camry was parked in the garage. He eased his foot off the brake, let the Ford creep forward a few more feet, until the driveway was effectively blocked. He turned off the engine, unfastened his safety belt and slipped the keys in his pocket, swung open his door.

  Parker reached out, clutched at his sleeve. She said, “Jack, let’s wait for the backup, just this once.”

  “Next time,” said Willows firmly.

  Willows broke free, climbed out of the car. Parker watched him walk around the front of the car, open the gate and pass through. She lost sight of him, and felt a sudden moment of panic, pulse accelerating, her heart beating in her chest as if something had shaken loose. She unbuckled her seatbelt and pushed open her door. Willows was at the front door, then moving away, a dark shape gliding into the shadows. She hurried to catch up as he disappeared around the side of the house.

  A security light snapped on, and Parker was blinded by the glare. She averted her face. Shadows jumped out at her as another light blossomed. Rain fell in streaks of white. There was a tall wooden fence on the left, decorative shrubbery. Parker drew her pistol. The backyard opened up in front of her. For a moment she thought they were at the wrong house, and then she realized that the pool had been filled in.

  They climbed three low steps to the sundeck. The kitchen was brightly lit, empty. Willows tried the sliding glass door and was only mildly surprised to discover that it was unlocked. He slid the door open and he and Parker entered the house.

  Upstairs, a woman was crying. Parkers heels clicked on the tile floor as she crossed the kitchen. She walked down a wide, thickly carpeted hallway, was momentarily dazzled by the foyer’s bright lights, gold wallpaper. She unlocked the front door and opened it wide. Willows swiftly checked the main-floor rooms. He and Parker ascended the stairs to the second floor.

  The crying had stopped, replaced by a low humming, a soft, insistent drone. They moved in tandem down a central hallway towards the front of the house. Willows drew his pistol. The sound was coming from behind a closed door. He put his hand on the knob. Parker moved to the side, her drawn weapon in a two-handed grip, held at shoulder height.

  Willows eased the door open a crack. He glimpsed movement and hit the door with his shoulder.

  “Police!”

  Farrah Fawcett stared at him, her blue eyes icy cold, full of disdain. Cut to a Jeep Cherokee commercial. But the television was silent; the source of the low hum a treadmill’s electric motor. Willows backed out of the room. He shut the door. Parker was already on the stairs, moving cautiously upwards, taking it one step at a time.

  *

  No matter how persuasively Kelly begged and pleaded, Shannon would not unlock the bathroom door.

  He said, “C’mon babe, open up.” Man, he was trying so hard to be nice. He rattled the knob. “I gotta go, Shannon. Let me in, will ya? C’mon now, don’t be a bitch!”

  No response. Nothing. Not a word. He rested a foot on Ross’s chest. It was going to be a close thing, with the duct-tape. He’d used all of two rolls and most of the third. He said, “You okay in there?”

  Ross stared up at him. A six-inch length of tape sealed his mouth shut. The rest of him, except for his eyes, was wrapped up good and tight. He could hardly breathe.

  Kelly rattled the door again. “Open that door right this minute, young lady!”

  “Go away! Leave me alone!”

  The door muffled her voice, but the tone was unmistakable. Venomous. Acidic. Kelly smiled. Shannon was seriously irked, likely to stay that way for hours. Once she got in one of her moods…

  “I’m gonna kick it in, sweetheart!”

  Kelly stepped back. He lifted his foot. Ross squeezed his eyes shut. He was so thoroughly trussed up there wasn’t even room to flinch.

  “I mean it, babycakes!” Kelly took a half-step backwards, got set and lashed out. Wood splintered. The door crashed against the toilet hard enough to dislodge a chunk of porcelain. Shannon sat on the edge of the tub, hugging herself. Her cheeks were puffy and her eyes were red. She stared at Ross just long enough to identify him, then looked away.

  She said, “What’re you going to do to him?”

  “Whatever it takes.”

  “Did you have to shoot George?”

  “Hoffman? It was self-defence, honey-bunch. Him or me. I had no choice, and that’s no lie.” He tore a handful of toilet paper from the dispenser. “Blow your nose.” He stepped out of the bathroom, got a grip on Ross’s shoulders and stood him upright. He pogo-sticked him into the bathroom, grunted as he tilted him sideways and bulled him into the tub. He got him upright and let go. Ross fell rigid as a tree. His head hit the white tile surround. His bound feet slid slowly along the bottom of the tub until he was wedged at about a twenty-degree angle.

  Shannon said, “If you think about it, he looks kind of like a really skinny Oscar.”

  “A what?” said Kelly, grunting as he worked Ross into position, rolled him over so he was on his back, his head directly below the shower pipe.

  “You know, those prizes they give away for best actress and best movie…” Her face was suddenly white, pinched. “The Oscars!”

  “Yeah, right. Feeling a little better now, baby?”

  She glanced at Ross. Reluctantly said, “Maybe just a little bit.”

  Kelly went back into the bedroom for the clear, flexible plastic tubing and the rest of the duct-tape. What else did he need? His knife. Coming back into the bathroom, he said, “That’s my girl.” He used the sharp blade of the knife to poke a small hole in the middle of a foot-long piece of tape, inserted one end of a ten-foot length of tubing through the hole. He bent and ripped the tape from Ross’s mouth. “Got anything you’d like to say, while you still got the chance?”

  Ross’s eyes watered. He clenched his teeth.

  Kelly chipped away at an incisor with the knife. “Remember how I opened the door? Polite at first, and then not so polite?” The point of the blade skidded off a tooth. Ross cried out, as best he could. Kelly shouted, “Where’s my money!” He shoved the end of the plastic hose into a nostril, pressed the tape down over Ross’s nose. He bound the hose in place with tape until he was certain it was secure, that Ross couldn’t breathe except through his mouth.

  He put the tape and knife aside, reached up and unscrewed the shower head.

  Ross was watching him. Tremors of fear made him twitch and jerk. Kelly said, “Would you hold that for me, babe?” He tossed Shannon the shower head. She snatched at it and missed. It clattered on the floor and rolled behind the toilet, and she began to cry.

  Kelly thrust the other end of the plastic tube into the exposed
end of the water pipe. He wound tape around the tube and pipe until he was satisfied that he’d made a watertight seal.

  Ross was staring up at him, and Kelly didn’t like it. He tore another strip from the roll and dangled it over Ross’s eyes.

  “See, what happens now, I turn on the water. It drips down the tube and into your nose, drives you crazy. But you can breathe through your mouth, so it’s okay. Uncomfortable, but survivable.

  “But, after a while, I tape your mouth shut. And you can’t breathe, and the water keeps sliding down that hose, drop by drop.

  “You’re dying, Ross. Asphyxiating. Drowning. Bummer, huh?”

  Ross had just noticed Kelly’s earring. It was gold, in the shape of a pistol.

  “But then I use my knife to cut a hole through the tape. I save your bacon, and you’re grateful as hell. You tell me where the two hundred and twenty grand is and now it’s my turn to be grateful. How grateful? Would I let you go? Sure. Why not?”

  Kelly turned on the tap, adjusted the flow. A few drops of water slithered down the tube.

  He was vaguely aware of Shannon moving behind him, as he followed the progress of the water down the tube. A part of his mind heard the tiny, church-bell ring of the knife as it touched the rim of the tub. The delicate echo of that bell was drowned in a raucous clamouring of much louder bells. Alarm bells. He twisted towards her, his arm coming up.

  Shannon had a business-like, no-nonsense, two-handed grip on the knife. She lifted the blade up over her head like some kind of goddamn Aztec princess, as Kelly yanked the revolver from his waistband. He swung the barrel around, regretting the damage he was about to do, the thousands of dollars he’d spent on her orthodontist about to go right down the fucking drain…

  The knife plunged into him, and tore his heart asunder.

  He choked on her name. She fell back, drifted away from him. What had she done with his knife? The way she was looking at him, he might’ve been a million miles’ distant. He’d pushed her too hard, asked too much of her. First Mooney, then the grocer. Hoffman. Sex and death. Fine. But not so close together, maybe. Give her time to adjust… Or was it that she had a thing for the ex-con… Where was his damn knife?